Skills Set
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: The job has its perks.


Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

**Author's Note: **I've had this scene in my head for a couple of years now--maybe since Owl first opened the Law Clinic and put Joyce behind the reception desk. Now even though Owl's clinic and mine exist on slightly different spatial planes, Joyce is a constant. Such a nice lady. Even though I didn't know her last name, I always liked having her around.

Thanks Owl!

**Skills Set**

by L. M. Lewis

She had put in her thirty-one years at Barrow, Haige, and Monroe—outlasting all three of the senior partners as well as Mr. Monroe's younger brother. She'd thought perhaps she'd outlast one or two of the junior partners, as well, but they thought differently. In the end her desk was needed by a pretty young thing who couldn't type very fast, but probably took dictation well.

So Joyce Holcroft retired, boxing up her dignity along with her pencil jar, her Rolodex, and a bottle of white-out that she'd never had to use very much. Her children, all grown, suggested she take it easy for a change—travel a bit, maybe take up a hobby.

That had lasted almost one month, by which time Joyce had reorganized all her closets and decided that retirement was too _sedentary_. She thought perhaps her next hobby would be working.

So there she was, picking her way through traffic on a bright Monday morning. The address was on Pico Street. It was obvious from the surroundings that this wasn't going to be one of those chrome-and-glass tower buildings, with a service to water the ferns. This went with the rumors, gotten through a friend of a friend. "They're different," had been the gist of it.

Joyce thought she was ready for different. She cruised past the address and spotted the name of the place, freshly stenciled on the glass door: "The Nancy Hardcastle Memorial Law Clinic". Fine and good. Now all she needed was a parking space.

The twenty minutes of cushion she'd built into her travel time had already partly evaporated on the blazing asphalt of LA traffic. The remainder was quickly being frittered away looking for a spot that would accommodate her aging Buick Riviera. Nothing on the street, except for half spaces that were the result of sloppy parking.

She tsked and took the next right turn. Turning again, into the alley, she saw the hoped for cluster of back spots apparently shared by the businesses in that part of the block. She thought there might be one empty place, just past a hulking two-toned pickup truck and directly behind the address she was interested in—except there was another car, a low-slung red thing, approaching from the opposite direction. She never cursed, but she _thought_ about cursing this time. She was close enough now to see the driver of the car and she fixed him with a steely glare.

To her utter surprise, he didn't curse, either. He wouldn't have had to, actually. His vehicle had it all over hers in maneuverability. He might have snatched off the prize without breaking a sweat.

Instead, he came to a halt, then backed up the necessary foot or so, to give her an easier approach. All the time he was smiling whimsically, although he did check his watch once. Joyce frowned briefly—it was mostly surprise to find the ghost of chivalry still stalking the streets of LA. Then she managed a polite nod of the head, and a reserved smile of her own.

She pulled into the space, still feeling slightly at ends from the unexpectedness of the encounter. She put the car in park and stepped out, half hoping to convey her thanks again, but he was already gone.

She sighed and closed her door. That was city life. Everyone was late for something. She hoped the young man would find one of the smaller spots out on the street to be acceptable.

She checked her own watch, two minutes to spare. Enough time to walk back around to the front of the building and make a proper entrance. She headed that way.

There was no one behind the reception desk, of course. The Spartan surroundings took her by surprise yet everything that was there looked functional. She'd only just stepped in when she heard someone coming from the back and a greeting—"Ms. Holcroft?"

He was a man of established years, silver-haired and thick around the middle, with a smile that balanced his craggy face. He didn't offer his hand until she made the first move, so he'd obviously learned his manners in a more genteel age. He didn't seem like the type to be setting up a storefront law clinic, but there was only a pause after she'd acknowledged her own name before he offered his.

"Milt Hardcastle . . . one of the associates," he added hastily. Then there was a brief frown and a quick glance at the wall clock, followed by a gesture toward the back. "Why don't we have a seat? The director must be running a little late. Sorry about that."

Joyce smiled tightly, puzzling over the information. The associate was no spring chicken and it couldn't be a coincidence that his last name and the one on the door were the same. In all that she was having trouble picturing the director. Superannuated, no doubt, perhaps an even more elderly survivor of the deceased.

"He's like that," the associate said in an aside as she passed by him and into the equally Spartan conference room. "He'd forget his head if it wasn't fastened on."

Mr. Hardcastle was grinning. Joyce wasn't sure how she felt about this—the man in charge being openly criticized by an underling, no matter how close a family member he was. She sighed and nodded noncommittally. She took a seat and reached into her capacious shoulder bag for a copy of her resume. She hoped it would forestall any more awkward revelations.

The man took it, then sat down in the seat across from her, taking a moment to peruse it with apparent care. He looked up, smiling more openly now. "You seem like just the ticket. Someone with a lot of experience running a legal office." His smile became slightly less certain. "Why the heck did they let you go?"

It seemed like an honest question, not subterfuge. Joyce was only saved from this further moment of awkwardness by the sound of the front door opening again an a greeting being called out.

"Sorry I'm late. We need more parking."

It was a younger voice. Joyce felt a sudden sinking feeling of precognition that was quickly reinforced when a young man appeared in the doorway, giving her a quick, unsurprised nod.

"The director, Mark McCormick," the older man said, without much ceremony. "This is Joyce Holcroft."

"He hasn't been giving you the third degree, has he?" The young man stuck out his hand and she quite reflexively did the same. Modern times. Mr. McCormick shook his head; it might have been doleful except for the hint of a smile. "He's already scared a couple off but I'm guessing you're made of sterner stuff."

Joyce hoped the flush of embarrassment wasn't visible.

"It's okay," the young man grinned, "I'd hate for you to have been late for an interview. Always sets things off on the wrong foot. Besides, you'd win in a head-on collision."

This time she couldn't help it, but she kept her laugh short and discreet. The older man had one eyebrow up as he glanced from one to the other. "You've met, huh?"

"Just briefly," Mr. McCormick replied. He slid into a seat and reached for the resume. He gave it a quick once-over and said, "We won't be able to match what they were paying you."

"'_They_' aren't paying me at all anymore." She'd shot it back quickly, then just as quickly wondered where that revelation had come from. She hadn't intended to be so straightforward.

"Well," Mark said with a considering grin, "we can do better than _that_." He turned to the older man and said, "Whaddaya think?"

Mr. Hardcastle gave her one quick appraising look and said, "When can you start? How 'bout tomorrow? We're already getting behind."

Unconsidered decisions were not her usual M.O., but just this once she felt utterly capricious, and heard herself saying "What time would you like me here?"

"Nine will be okay," Mr. McCormick said cheerfully. "There's more parking in the morning, too."

"Nine, then," she said with a definitive nod as she stood to go, "and . . . thank you." She wasn't sure where that had come from, either, but she meant it sincerely.

She was on her feet, and the other two were standing as well, obviously men with work to attend to, but Mr. McCormick escorted her back along the hallway, past two offices. "It's shorter this way," he said, "and you should call me Mark."

They'd made it back to a small back room, already occupied by a coffee-maker and a small fridge. "The break-room," Mark said. "One of our many perks." He was grinning, but there was definite pride of ownership there.

Joyce hadn't quite sorted it out yet—the older man deferring to the younger, but neither one of them was much for standing on ceremony, but the whole thing seemed to work, as far as she could see.

"Coffee?" he asked.

She broke off from her speculation and shook her head, smiling. "I'd better get going. There are some things I'll need to get done."

He opened the door for her and she stepped through.

"Tomorrow, then," he said. "We really could use some organizing."

She nodded again, then turned and walked the few steps to her car, reaching into her purse as she went. The reach turned into a scrabble, and then a quick visual inspection, none of which turned up her keys. Her heart, an unusually stable organ, lurched suddenly as her almost-always reliable mind played back the earlier events with quick, brutal accuracy.

Of course she'd been distracted. Her mind had been elsewhere as she'd gotten out of the car. She leaned in toward the closed window on the driver's side and shaded her eyes. The keys glittered in the morning light on the passenger's seat, shining through the opposite window.

She swallowed once and turned quickly. The young man—your _boss_, her mind instructed her sternly—had already gone back inside. The door was closed. This wasn't going to get any easier. Slinking off to a phone booth would only be an embarrassment later on, if one of the men noticed her out there waiting for the locksmith. Might as well get it over with.

She strode back to the door, but knocked almost timidly. Mr. McCormick hadn't apparently gone far. The door reopened almost at once. He was standing there, coffee cup in hand, looking mildly puzzled at her reappearance.

"Forget something?" he asked mildly.

"I, ah, need to use the phone," she replied, and then, after only a moment of internal equivocation, added, "I locked my keys in the car." She shook her head in self-deprecation and then said, "I'm not like that, usually."

The young man shrugged. "Happens," he said, gazing past her quickly and then saying, "'78 Riv, huh?" At her nod he said, "Wait a sec."

He put his coffee cup down and reached over to the coat rack on the other side of the doorway. Many hangers and no coats graced it. He hesitated only a moment before picking out a dry cleaner-style hanger. Pulling the narrow cardboard tube from its wire frame, he came back to the counter, opened what looked like a proto-odds and ends drawer, and fished around for something, evidently a plier he knew was there. A couple quick bends and he'd fashioned one end of the hanger to some specifications that met with his approval.

"But—" Her question was cut off but a hasty, "Shhh," and a quick glance by the young man over his shoulder. His associate was apparently otherwise occupied. He silently ushered her through the back door, following close behind and then taking the lead once they were outside.

They were over at the car a moment later and Mr. McCormick was inspecting the door and window. He worked the piece of wire between the rubber flange and the window, and then, with a couple of quick movements that might have been quicker than a key in the lock, she heard the familiar pop of the locking mechanism.

"'78," he mused, almost to himself, "that was a very good year."

He opened the door, scooping her keys up off the seat, and offering them to her with air of gallantry.

She took them, blushing. "Thank you."

"One of our other perks," he said archly.

She shook her head silently, then looked down at her keys. "I don't make a habit of this, _really_."

"Good," he said, "because if you did, then I'd have to teach _you_ how to do this, and eventually we'd run out of hangers." He looked down at the one he'd damaged. "Here," he added, offering it to her like a long stem rose. "You can practice on your own. It's all in the wrist. It can come in handy sometimes." His grin softened to a more sober smile. "Just don't mention it to Hardcastle, okay? He likes to think I've forgotten how."

Then he nodded his good-bye and turned on his heel, hands in pockets, and the jaunty step of a man who likes his work.

She watched him slip back into the building. She shook her head again and wondered if there was anything else she ought to know about her new boss.


End file.
